To the uninitiated, this is a book
about nothing. Don’t get too attached
to any sentences or images or themes.
Don’t be fooled by the upbeat words
or the bits that make you feel
like they’re leading to a neatly
wrapped ending. You’ll meet a few people.
Some will be dressed in suits or running
shoes or will have jewellery on their bodies
left by a loved one. Some will
have sing-song voices, some will be afraid.
Some will have jobs, some will cook food,
some will climb mountains. Say hello
to them, sure, but don’t get too attached,
this is a book about nothing.

© Carl Burkitt 2023

He walks into the pub – black duffle coat,
black beret, black jeans, black running shoes.
Looking suave, I say, as he whistles towards me.
Even with these soup stains? he says,
lifting up a splashed sleeve of his jacket.
What flavour soup? I say.
Who knows. Here, he says, You’re a writer,
you’ll like these. His hand dunks itself
into his black satchel, pulls out a notebook
stuffed with the last words of dead celebrities.
Peanut? he offers.

© Carl Burkitt 2023

His neck is a rainbow –
thick, drenched in light,
dancing secretly to Hall & Oates
from the only living speaker
in the far corner of the café
while his mate talks about
the most recent traffic jam
he was stuck in.

© Carl Burkitt 2023

I heard today that too much water can kill you.
I’m 60% water, so too much of me can kill you.
When I get talking about the importance
of a left-footed centre back to the balance
of a four-four-two formation, or my teeth
can do nothing but explain why the latest
Roman Reigns storyline in WWE deserves
an Emmy Award, or my tongue mentions
the way my hip feels 40 years older than me,
or I list my ever changing top 10 crisps,
or bang on about or bang on about John Hegley poems,
I can see your eyes drowning.
If you don’t want to swim with me, piss off.

© Carl Burkitt 2023

leaning against the oven,
watching life unfold.
It opened the window earlier
and cannot feel the breeze
against its see-through skin.
It just put a pen in its eye
but nothing happened,
the clocks just kept going
and the air was nothing but news.

© Carl Burkitt 2023

every word ever invented
sits behind a frame in an art gallery
next to a sign saying DO NOT TOUCH.
The air is glue. I cannot remember
what happened on my weekend
and cannot remember how to ask you
about yours. The weather doesn’t exist.
I can see everything: fingerprints
on the windows but not who they belong to,
a water ring on a brand new coffee table,
a packet of crisps and no-one to eat them.
A vein in my neck wants to know
about your heart and how it works
and you want to know what I do
for a living.

© Carl Burkitt 2023

He struts out the door
wearing jeans tighter than his calf skin.
His glasses are thick, clean, expensive.
His quiff is a full roll of tissue paper,
his jumper a woollen cubicle door.
We meet in the corridor at the top of the pub.
I smile, he takes his phone out of his pocket
and keeps walking.
The freckles on the back of his neck
are Morse code for WHO CARES.

© Carl Burkitt 2023

He was born on a Valentine’s Day
back when there was only four TV channels.
His hair was a bouquet of roses
and his fingernails chocolates
he would one day nibble when stressed.
He only ever wore red.
He made cards for the things in his house:
Will you be my Valentine, rug?
Will you be my Valentine, spoon?
Will you be my Valentine, egg?
People called him Cupid, but he was real,
just ask the strangers he shot with a smile
when he realised they were looking his way.

© Carl Burkitt 2023

They’re in the pub,
chatting like everything is fine.

© Carl Burkitt 2023

We’re reading a book and a kite
is tangled in a tree.
A pig has decided to climb up
and save it. His trotters look unsteady
on the bark that’s bending
under his weight and it’s raining.
We’re startled by the noise
of an ambulance outside.
The windows show us grey clouds
and the flat is bending under the weight.
The pig has barely moved
but he’s trying.

© Carl Burkitt 2023